Blood, Knives, and Fire
by saturnstargazer
Summary: It is the sixty-second Hunger Games, and Panem is caught in the midst of control. Buice Retica of District 10 joins the the tributes to fight for his life, and his family. Kyria Kinney, loved by no one, simply decides to win. Whatever the cost. Violent.


**Hello all! Thank you for clicking upon my fanfic! I hope that you'll find it's worthwhile.**

**A few things: this is my first fic in over three years; it's also my first Hunger Games fanfiction.**

**As I have not browsed FanFiction in a very long time, I don't know if anyone has done something like mine; though I doubt it's uncommon. So, if I have written something similar to someone else's story, I deeply apologize. But I assure you, I have not read anything involving Hunger Games fanfiction recently.**

**I can also assure you that what I write comes entirely from my own head. **

**Another thing; this fanfiction does not surround Katniss, or Peeta. It is a Games that happened before the seventy-fourth, and therefore, most of the characters are fictional, again, coming from my head. **

**On that note, I hope you all enjoy; it's been in the making for a very, very long time.**

**Thank you again! Please read!**

_-Buice-_

I suppose that nightmares aren't so different from reality.

I wake from a particularly bad one on the day of the Reaping. I knew that sleep wouldn't be my friend that night, either; not with the Games so close, not with that chance dangling in front of my face, taunting.

It is my last Reaping, after all; and luck does not seem to be on my side.

As I lay in bed, I allow the cold sweat to trickle down my forehead, onto my hard pillow. The ceiling with the cracks drips water while rain pounds our small roof. The water gathers in a puddle, just under my window.

While I watch the puddle grow, I vaguely wonder how the Gamemakers aren't controlling the weather—until I remember I'm not in the arena yet. I'm still at my home, in District 10.

Even as I alarmingly think I'm going crazy, I hear two small pairs of feet patter down the hallway, and two separate voices.

"Wake him up! Please!"  
>"No, mother said not to! It's Buice's day today, and he should sleep as long as he likes!"<br>"But mother is wrong! If he doesn't get up soon, he might be late for the Reaping..."

Unable to ignore them, I step out of bed and open my door.

The two children look up at me, wide eyed with guilt. Ovvie, who is younger, shuffles his small feet and breaks my gaze, staring at the floor. His haphazard dark hair is a mess, ruffled from sleep, and as he finds enough courage to glance at me again, I notice the green of his eyes are unusually watery. Essa, almost nine, she looks at me a little more defiantly, her eyes quite clear of tears, and her chin up. She smooths her ribboned dress, and brushes back her brown curls, daring me with her expression to scold.

The three of us look at each other for a few moments, when Essa finally says, "Mother said not to wake you."

"I heard," I say, kneeling to get to her level.

Ovvie wrings his hands guiltily. He's small, even for six years old. "Buice, I'm sorry; I just... I wanted you to..." His voice trails away, and tears fall down his cheeks. Ovvie cries when he feels bad, and when he's scared. Today, I think it's a little bit of both.

I pick him up. "I was awake before you two goats came along." I don't tell him why, though; I think Essa, who is intelligent like our mother, guesses why. She hugs my legs. "We're sorry, Buice."

I set Ovvie down. "That's alright. Let's go see mother."

Ovvie leads the way, toddling on short legs. Essa holds my hand.

Mother has prepared me a breakfast—eggs, from the chickens, a small loaf of bread, and, best of all, a small slice of ham.

I stare at the meat, in awe. We hardly ever have meat, let alone pig.

Mother is sitting in a chair beside my plate; she looks thin as always, with graying, pretty brown hair, and the widest, darkest colored eyes you've ever seen. The color always reminds me of chocolate, which I have seen once in my life.

Mother gestures to the plate and says, "I got a bargain for that meat; I only had to trade a loaf of bread and a quart of milk. I think... I think people feel bad for us..." Her voice shakes, trailing off uncertainly.

My mother, myself, Ovvie, and Essa live in District 10, the District known best for livestock. Not that we get any of the animals. Mother saved money when she was younger, and we were able to buy two hens and a rooster; at the time, I was around five. Every spring, the chickens have babies, and we sell them, for a fairly good price.

We have a good life, better than most people here. We live about a mile from the main part of town, a small shack surrounded by yellow fields. Our few neighbors are about a ten minutes walk apiece. The four of us, we feed our chickens, sell our eggs, and make enough money to scrape by. Of course, none of us are the picture of health; then again, I don't know anyone who is.

There used to be more of us; I had two more brothers, a second sister, and a father, but all of them were lost to the Games.

You see, my father was a victor. He won the thirty-sixth Hunger Games, and two years later, married my mother. Jomney was born first; then my second brother, Sast. My older sister, Challie, my best friend, was born after him. Then there was me; then Essa, then Ovvie.

My father was the first to leave us; he killed himself when Jomney was fifteen. I was nine; my mother was four months pregnant with Ovvie. None of us know why father took his life, but I've always thought it was because he couldn't live with the memories of the Games, of the people he killed, the lives he destroyed.

Sast was the first of the children to be selected for a reaping. Of course, Jomney volunteered to take Sast's place, and we watched him die; he didn't make it through the first week.

Sast, three years after, was picked again. Sast refused Challie to volunteer, and he died on the second night in the arena.

Challie was selected the following year. Out of the three, she made it the longest, getting into the top four before someone killed her. She died at the same age as Jomney did, sixteen, and my mother could hardly stand it.

Mother tried her best to cope with the grief, but it took a lot out of her. Her hair grayed earlier. Her eyes drooped, and she rarely slept well. She smiled less. As much as she suffered, she remained a mother to Ovvie, Essa, and I.

So, as you can imagine, the Capitol and Gamemakers really like to play on the 'Retica Family Curse'. They say it's in our blood to go into the arena. Capitol people and Careers like to poke fun at us a lot. They say our family is like a slaughterhouse.

I'm eighteen; this is my last Reaping. If I'm not picked, the 'curse' will be broken, and I won't have to worry so much about Essa and Ovvie eventually making their way into the arena, too.

I sit at the table beside my mother to eat breakfast. I offer some of the meat to the little ones, which they eat immediately. Meat is a rare thing.

Mother refuses to eat something; even when Essa begs her, she shakes her head. She says she won't eat again until I'm safe, and I tell her she won't eat for the rest of her life.

This makes Ovvie upset, and he starts to cry again. Mother holds him in her lap, shushing.

I finish my breakfast, and I rise to my feet, meeting Mother's eyes. She nods, and I walk back to my bedroom to change.

The clothes are the same as last year's; a neat, blue shirt that was my father's; long pants that still require I grow a few inches; worn, supple shoes.

I comb my hair lastly, as there's nothing I can do with it. I brush my fingertips along my jaw, and think about shaving, but decide not to; it will make the Capitol's job harder, and that's what I want.

When I go back to my mother, she has dressed the children just as neatly as though their names are also in big glass balls. There's a small flower in Essa's hair, and my heart melts with her smile.

Mother smooths her hair and says, "It's time."

The four of us troop out of the house and onto the dirt road. The rain has stopped, but the sky is still a dreary, moody gray. Cows now graze in the pastures we pass, and some curious sheep poke their heads through the grass to look at us.

We meet no one along the way, but by the time we get to town, it is easy to see everyone; boys and girls, dressed their best, parents anxiously clutching hands, wringing fingers, biting lips.

They all move along like the cattle we tend; just as submissive.

In the center of town, a ring of Peacekeepers are taking children from their parents. Most just do as they're told, but the few parents who begin to cry receive injuries. Small squabbles arise, and quickly stop.

A Peacekeeper approaches my family and me, and I manage to kiss Essa's cheek and squeeze mother's hand before they lead me away. Mother and the children stand there, looking forlorn and sad.

I join the other eighteen year olds that have grouped together in a fenced off area that is too small for us. I spot familiar faces, but don't want to say hello to anybody.

Suddenly, I hear her.

"Buice! Buice, over here!"

Spinning on my heel, I look for her. There she is, hanging on the rope dividing our ages. I run to her, grabbing her hands when I reach her.

She looks beautiful in a light green dress, a rare color to find. Her hair is pulled up neatly, flyaway ebonies falling gently into her face. Her eyes are wide, scared, but always the most wonderful shade of hazel. Her smile lights up my entire world, bright and beaming.

My stunning Leah.

_-Kyria-_

The crowd bustles along, blank-eyed and bland.

I move by myself—no family to drop me off, no friends to care—and join the queue of teenagers. Dismissively, a Peacekeeper doubled checks our names and ages, and sends us to an appropriate area.

I am sent to stand with the other fifteen year olds, in the middle of the crowd.

Always in the middle.

They shoot me looks of annoyance and anger as they catch sight of me, as though I have a choice whether to be there or not. Not fazed, I smooth the scratchy material of my dress.

I want to go home. Want to get out of this heat, out of this stupid crowd.

I have not signed up for any tesserae. So my chances are slim. Why should I be here?

"Ladies and Gentlemen," a voice says from the podium, "It is time for us to begin!"

The noise silences almost immediately. Our escort, Maeby Abbleright, steps forward, looking shocking in violently green hair. Gentle applause ensues.

"Welcome, once again, District 7!" Maeby says with a hint of disgust in her voice, "Happy Hunger Games!"

More applause.

She steps back, and our mayor makes a speech; the usual, about how we should be thankful for our lives, and how the Capitol has made this a better life for us; how it should be considered an honor to die in the Games.

All lies.

Maeby steps forward again, and takes command. "Shall we begin?"

The glass bowls are brought out immediately, glinting innocently in the sunlight. They are filled to the brim with small slips of paper. She goes to the girl's bowl first, and dips her hand deep into the contents. She pulls out a piece of paper and reads from it, "Kyria Kinney!"

That's it, then.

I step forward through the crowd, having no difficulty controlling my facial expression. I can feel eyes on me; District 7 eyes, Capitol eyes, Panem eyes.

"No volunteers?" Maeby trills, looking disappointed, "But she is such a pretty girl."

Silence.

Maeby says, "What a pity!" She motions for me to stand behind her, and I do.

Maeby returns to the bowls, this time putting her hand into the other one, with the boy's names. She draws his slip in a shorter amount of time. She speaks into the microphone, "Ronan Polluce," and a scrawny, thirteen year old boy walks out of the crowd. I recognize him from school, but I don't know much about him. He has red hair and pimples; he stutters a lot.

We shake hands, as is usual. He's sweating and quivering. I have no trouble seeing the fear in his eyes.

Maeby concludes with, "Thank you, District 7! And may this be the Happiest of Hunger Games!"


End file.
